Revenge
by Dailenna
Summary: One disgruntled blonde wants revenge on Roy Mustang for ruining their life.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own FMA, and I don't own Fuhrer Sparkles (Fuhrer Sparkles is the property of **causmicfire **:3)

**Notes:** Erm . . . I don't think this really has spoilers unless you count the fact that the characters present are from chapters 63 and onwards.

"**Revenge**" by **Dailenna**

A uniformed blonde tossed her long hair to the side and looked with disdain upon the paperwork piled before her. With a glance she put it to the side, reasoning that she had her rounds of Headquarters to make, and could get one of her subordinates to complete the work for her.

But there was one thing on her mind at the moment, and one thing only, and that thing was the most annoying person she had ever come across. An evil, pompous, arrogant philanderer of a man- no, a monster! Yes – it was Roy Mustang.

Narrowing her eyes, the blonde stood from her desk. She had tried the same thing many a time before, and never gone through with it, but one more shot wouldn't hurt. With purpose and with determination, she walked out of her office.

"Major Miles."

The Major turned about, instantly at attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Get me some paper. Not that rubbish with rules and regulations you try to get me to sign – get me some blank sheets of paper. I need to write another letter."

With that she turned about and stalked back into her own office. The room was so empty that she had once considered moving herself into one of the smaller offices, and having a few people share this larger room – just so there wasn't so much empty space – but giving someone else the biggest office, even if it was a group of people, would be like allowing them to have more power. No, she had to be careful to maintain her authority in this place. Her men respected her, but if that respect began to crumble, she'd be left standing in a pile of bricks while all of Drachma bounded over her head into Amestris.

"Major-General Armstrong?" Miles had gathered some paper for her already. The man was useful, that was true enough. Better than some certain black-haired gits who only got in the way of everything good and lovely.

Olivier took the pile of blank paper from Miles and shooed him back out the door so that she could write her letter in peace.

_To Roy,_ she began, only to scribble it out and throw it onto the floor in the middle of the room – she had to use all that empty space for something, and 'to Roy' just sounded too amiable, and _friendly_. If she didn't give the right impression from the start he might assume something. She knew that smarmy little grin he'd be wearing if he didn't think she meant business.

_Colonel Mustang,_ was the replacement greeting, and, now satisfied, Olivier began on the body of the letter. After twenty minutes, lots of thinking, one interruption from Major Miles, and a few more scrunched up pieces of paper in the centre of the room, she had the finished product in her hand and was writing her signature on the bottom with a flourish.

It read:

_Colonel Mustang,_

_The Next Time that Our Subsequent Headquarters Join for Training, You are Going To Die. This is Neither A Threat, Nor A Promise. It's A Cold, Hard Fact. You and Your Pretty Little Face are Going To Be Mushed into The Ground, and You Will Cease To Breathe._

_If You Rise from This Position, I Will Personally put My Sword Through Your Liver, Both of Your Kidneys, and Your Lungs. Your Heart May Remain Intact – I Don't Want My Precious Steel to Come into Contact with That Small, Black, Shrivelled Thing You Think is A Heart._

_If by Some Miracle You Survive This, I Will Decapitate You – Quite the Fitting Death For You, I Think. Any Subordinates Who Get In The Way . . . I Can't Promise that They Will Be Safe, but I Assure You that They are Not My Targets. You Are. And You __**Will**__ Die._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Olivier Milla Armstrong,_

_Major-General_

She glared at the letter, and although it mirrored her thoughts exactly, she crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it onto the pile of rejects still sitting in the centre of the room.

It didn't seem eloquent enough. It had purpose, but wasn't worded in the right quality. She didn't manage to convey her anger with the eloquence and elegance she had aimed for. Upset, she leant her elbows on her desk, and put her head in her hands.

Someday, she would hurt Colonel Mustang for all he had done to her. In her letter she planned to get back at him by doing to him just what he had done to her best friend _ever_. It was the perfect mode of revenge. Even if the words didn't work, she would tell him somehow. And as soon as she let the Colonel know of his upcoming doom, she would kill him.

Yes, someday soon she would avenge Fuhrer Sparkles: the Best Teddy-Bear Ever Known to Man.


End file.
